


The Sangrian Savage

by eriysap



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders (Video Blogging RPF) - Fandom
Genre: Almost Drowning, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - the earth is different, Hurt/Comfort, I may have to add tags later, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Slow Burn, Swearing, bc i made it all up, coz if i do it now: spoilers :O, thats why theres gonna be weird place names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 03:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15743394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eriysap/pseuds/eriysap
Summary: There’s a sea captain with a fearsome reputation who rules the seas of Narita together with his ruthless crew. Logan Clarke, a merchant from Salagos who was recently attacked by raiders, got to test these rumors firsthand when Captain Patton rescues him from the wreckage.





	1. The Merchant

Beautiful blue skies and crashing waves greeted Port Salagos as well as its bustling inhabitants. A magnificent cargo ship awaited at the end of the docks, towering over the small fishing boats beside it.

“Excuse me!” cried out a young man, ignoring the indignant shrieks around him as he rushed by. “My parch–”

“They’re already here, Mr. Clarke,” said a bulky man aboard the ship. He pointed behind him, much to the other’s relief.

“Just Logan would do, Garreth,” said he, making his way aboard the ship. “Mr. Clarke was my father.”

“Aye,” Garreth spoke solemnly, “Was a good man while he lived. Made the sweetest music boxes in all of Salagos…” Logan’s smile tightened, and the other sailor cleared his throat. “My apologies.”

“It’s alright,” Logan spoke, “It has been years since he died…” He chuckled, albeit it sounded bitter even to his own ears. “Father always wanted to travel the world with me but I always refused; now here I am.”

Logan adjusted his spectacles and looked back at the port. Merchants selling different wares hurried onto the ship as it prepared to depart. Sailors prepared their ropes and barrels on the deck. Fishermen handled their nets carefully before they left the docks to work. Spouses bid their sweethearts farewell, and families kiss their loved ones goodbye. Logan felt a pang of sadness in his chest, but knew better than to let it bother him. The boat finally left the docks of Salagos and towards the kingdom of Equitte, its beautiful sails blowing easily in the wind.

A hand made its way onto Logan’s shoulder, and he almost jumped in surprise. “Sorry, I just wanted to know if you wanted some wine?” The stranger carried a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. “One of Principia’s finest, prepared in the heart of Thectae.”

“You don’t happen to have tea instead, do you?” Logan asked, adjusting his spectacles nervously. The stranger shook their head, still smiling.

“None, I’m afraid. You Salagosians enjoy your tea a lot, huh?” they remarked.

“Yes,” Logan replied, and caught sight of Garreth’s ruddy face, having had drunk more wine than he did. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

The stranger merely nodded and left to ask another merchant, a plump woman with a flowery, wide-brimmed hat shading her face. Her eyes immediately brightened upon seeing Logan, and the lad was too unfortunate to get out of the conversation.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” she said airily, “The journey, the sights, ah! I could almost write a new poem in joy.”

“Yes, the weather is lovely during this time of the year.”

She didn’t seem to give up on conversation just yet, and took another sip of her wine. “I’m an acclaimed author you know,” she said, “I write scripts for plays and poems about my travels. I heard Equitte’s putting on a festival in a few months; this is so exciting!”

“Ah,” Logan mused, smiling faintly as he reminisced. “That must be the Donne Festival you’re talking about.” He recalled the sweet scents of cinnamon and sugar wafting in the air, as well as the taste of salted caramel on his tongue; he found he missed those very much, and he had another reason to leave his workshop. “It’s held in the capital–Canofer–every year since the early 1800s. It is about sharing chocolate and other confectioneries wi–”

“Logan!” Garreth’s voice boomed clear across the deck. He approached the two eagerly, his glass of wine empty and ready for refilling. “I see you’ve already met Mrs. Easton.”

“Oh please, just Euphrosyne will do!” Mrs. Easton gave him a small curtsey. “He was telling me about Canofer’s festival!”

“Equitte’s festivals are interestin’, I agree; but have you heard of"—Garreth made a show of looking around for eavesdroppers—"the Sangrian Savage?”

A gasp of breath involuntarily left Logan’s mouth. He wasn’t alone in his reaction though, as even Mrs. Easton jolted beside him, accidentally dropping her glass. A couple of sailors turned their heads towards the group, but Garreth paid them no mind.

“Only a fool would dare utter that name on the sea!” cried one of them.

“Ah, blast you and your worries!” chided their companion, “We’ve got cannons for days and enough powder in the stock room. That cursed captain will be no match for our Galema!”

“Should I tell you the story or not?” Logan could practically feel Garreth’s eagerness coating his words, betraying his faux disinterest.

“I’ve heard he prowls the seas of Narita,” Mrs. Easton whispered faintly. “He with that fearsome crew of his. The mere mention of his name gives me the heebie-jeebies!”

Garreth nodded, and turned to Logan. “What have you heard of this… fella?”

“He is certainly a thorn in the Governor’s side,” Logan spoke quietly, “I can’t imagine why.”

“What with all the the sailors he’d slain over the years, and all the treasure he’d hoarded, I’d say that’s a terrific reason why.” Garreth lowered his voice to a grave whisper. “Savage and ruthless and barbaric is he to leave all those bodies and leave his sword bloodied; what comes as more shockin’ is that matted mane of his, glistenin’ like wine, and hunted throughout the seas.”

“Impressive rhyming,” said Logan, “but what makes him different from other pirates then, other than his hair?”

“Haven’t you listened to a word I’d said? He’d killed millions for their loot!” Garreth looked even redder than before, a feat Logan thought was impossible; although whether it was of anger or something else entirely, he had no clue as to which.

“Millions?” Logan raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe I’ve… er… overestimated him.” Garreth’s previously gravelly whisper took on a more sheepish tone. Mrs. Easton chuckled nervously between them.

“Now now, I’m sure we’ll all be safe from him,” she spoke in a collected manner, although the way her eyes darted around the deck told Logan otherwise.

“There are a lot of cannons around,” Logan acquiesced, “and we’re not sailing headfirst into the oceans without some kind of security. The very idea just seems so preposterous to me.”

Garreth composed himself, grinning widely. “Ah well, might just be the drunken ramblin’ of a foolish sailor or a bogus tale about some fella.” He pointed over to a spot among the barrels and ropes. “I’ll be over there if you need me.”

“Well then!” Mrs. Easton declared, clapping her hands together. “I have something more marvelous to write.” She trotted off, leaving Logan alone once more with his thoughts.

 

The day passed by rather uneventfully, save for a few people getting seasick and some light conversation with the other passengers. Soon enough, the skies turned a blazing red as the sun gave way to the moon and the twinkling stars. A bit later after supper, a small crowd had gathered on the deck, chattering among themselves.

“Play it again!” a young merchant said eagerly, waving his fife in Logan’s face.

“I’ve never heard such a tune before,” a sailor remarked, “Did you make it yourself?”

“Well"—Logan cleared his throat and held the flute in his hands—"I don’t really consider myself a musician, but I’ve had this memorized while working on my music boxes.” He put the fife to his lips and played an upbeat melody that pierced the silent night.

“You play wonderfully,” commented the wine-bearer.

“If he’s this good on a stranger’s flute, how better his music boxes must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Easton, ink-stained hands clapping together.

Logan’s song finally came to an end, and his lips turned up to a small smile as he handed the merchant back his fife. “You’re all too kind.”

A grumble sounded out from behind.

“Ah, come on Anton, what’re you mutterin’ for?” Garreth said. The scowling man turned at once and sneered at the group, pointing towards the seas.

“If you’d rather attract pirates than stay hidden then don’t let me spoil your fun. Just sixty days more and we’ll be at Equitte’s port, eh?”

Logan recognized him as the terrified sailor from earlier. “We’re still in Salagos’s territory, there’s no need to worry about pirates as of now,” he interjected. “It’s far too risky for them to bother us yet.”

“You see, there’s a smart-ass for you,” Anton scoffed, “Willing to bet he’s never been on a boat before.” He stalked off. The small crowd walked away in awkward silence. Garreth went up to Logan and clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly.

“Don’t worry about Anton. He’s a good fella once you get to know him.”  
“It was no trouble at all,” Logan replied quietly. “Although he may be right in saying I’ve been playing too loudly in the middle of the night.”

His companion scoffed in turn. “Wait until he gets drunk off his wits. I’ve heard him wail louder than your pipe ever could.”

“Really, it’s nothing important.” Logan checked his pocket watch, a taut smile on his face. “Well. I’d better be off to bed. New day ahead and whatnot.” He headed off to his own cabin to retire for the night, leaving Garreth to his own devices.


	2. Afternoon Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan talks to Mrs. Easton one afternoon. It doesn't go well in the end.

For the next few days, Logan’s routine was almost exactly the same: meager meals, casual conversation, and mostly looking out into the open sea, hoping to find something interesting other than the rolling waves. Anton had already gone and apologized, if Logan could call his halfhearted handshake that.

He decided to spend the afternoon at the dining hall, which was just a large room with a few small tables and some stools all bolted in place just in case a particularly large gust of wind decided it wanted to topple them over. Logan’s eyes swept the room for any familiar face, his mouth quirking upwards upon seeing Mrs. Easton at the far end of the hall with her bread roll.

“Good day Logan,” the old writer chirped, her countenance as light and airy as ever. “I trust you’ve enjoyed a refreshing nap?”

“Hardly at all,” he replied faintly, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temple with one hand. Mrs. Easton’s smile dropped slightly, and Logan almost felt guilty for dampening the mood.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She patted the seat next to her and called over for another roll. Logan sat down, shaking his head politely when she pushed the plate towards him.

“I confess this wasn’t the first time I’d had troubled dreams,” he began, “but last night was more troubling than any of its… er… predecessors.

"It began as it always had: I’m at my workshop, drafting my music boxes; then all of my creations start playing this…  _awful_  cacophony! I tried to quiet them down, but my… hmm…” A shaky breath escaped through his lips as his voice trailed off. Mrs. Easton gently squeezed his hand, her kind expression never faltering.

“My aunt stormed in,” Logan continued, his tone and his gaze turning icy, “and blamed me for the racket. She said that the noise drove my parents away. Said it was my fault for not controlling it. That I should’ve done something to stop it.” He clenched his hand, brows furrowing together. “How preposterous! My mother was ill and my father was lost at sea; that was out of my control!” Logan took a deep breath, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Has she done that to you before?” Mrs. Easton asked, squeezing his hand again. He stayed silent for a moment before composing himself.

“Please,” Logan replied curtly, “do not concern yourself with it, Mrs. Ea- er- Euphrosyne.” He retracted his hand from her grasp. “It is merely a nightmare. I’ll manage.”

“Oh, well…” Mrs. Easton drew her hand back hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to impose. Just know that you can talk to me, if you need to; although I’m very sure there are others who would also do the same for you.”

Logan allowed his expression to soften into a small, subtle smile. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Easton beamed back at him, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anytime, dear… but if it’s not too much to ask"—she leaned a bit closer, dropping her voice to a whisper—"may I hear from your music boxes at least once?”

Logan sighed quietly. “I’m not too sure. I want my wares to be as pristine as they’ve been when they left my workshop, as any good merchant would prefer.” He met Mrs. Easton’s eyes, and gave her a small smile. “However, I’m willing to make an exception… just this once.”

Her eyes lit up. He helped her up from her seat and they made their way to Logan’s cabin. A large wooden crate sat near the bed, a flimsy mattress on a board of wood held up by two chains.

“I did say I wanted to make sure my wares were still in perfect condition.” He opened the crate and fished out a music box with an ornately decorated lid, no longer than his forearm and no wider than his hand. “Oak and copper… let’s see here.”

Logan turned the crank carefully before letting it play the same jovial song he played on the fife all those nights ago. The two of them sat in silence, admiring the melody.

“That’s very lovely craftsmanship,” Mrs. Easton spoke. “Have you been making these for a very long time?”

“Well, I’ve helped my father in the workshop since I was a young boy,” Logan said quietly. “At first I was in charge of carving the wood. Later on, he taught me how to create the drum—it’s how the box creates music—and how to assemble all the pieces.”

“Sounds like you and your dad got along swell,” Mrs. Easton replied. Logan chuckled softly.

"We did…” Logan traced the lid’s design idly with one finger. “I can only hope that whatever I’m doing now could make him proud.”

The music came to a close. Mrs. Easton smiled and patted the box gently with one hand. “I’m sure he already is.”

“I hardly thi—” A thunderous sound cut off Logan’s words, and the two looked at the door in surprise. He clutched his music box tightly as he felt the blood draining from his face.

“You don’t think—” “Could it be—?”

Another boom startled them, accompanied by frantic, frenzied yells from the deck. Mrs. Easton immediately stood up and headed towards the door, her face contorted in shock.

“Wait! It’s not safe out there!” Logan cried out, leaving the music box on his bed.

“M-My journals…” Mrs. Easton said, her voice trembling in a strained whisper. “I have to save them—!”

“I’ll go for you,” Logan whispered back, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turns to him with wide, horrified eyes, and shakes her head quickly.

“I insist—” Mrs. Easton bites off a scream as another bang resounded from afar. She clutches Logan’s arm tightly, her knuckles turning white.

“I’ll protect myself,” Logan said gently, pulling out a dagger from one of his boots to show her and returning it in its hidden sheath. “I promise I’ll return in one piece. Please, just take care of my music boxes for me.”

“Five doors down…” Mrs. Easton conceded hesitantly. She let go of Logan’s arm at once, and he rubbed it gratefully with his other hand. “Be careful out there.”

Logan nodded and opened the door cautiously. He ignored his racing heart and his protesting mind as he made his way down the hall, paying no heed to the screams and cannon shots from afar. The hall was eerily deserted; he supposed the others had gathered on the deck, but the merchants were missing from their rooms. It was unlikely that those would have been looted, since his room remained untouched—

A creak startled him from his thoughts and he instinctively drew his dagger, looking around for intruders. Logan hid inside the nearest room— _Mrs. Easton’s; he’d recognize that hat anywhere_ —and searched around for her journals.

He spotted two leather-bound books on the bed, and immediately flipped through them. Notes about different countries, descriptions, and events… just as he’d expected her to write.

He skimmed through the second one to be sure it was also a journal, when an arm suddenly wrapped itself around his neck and another around his waist, locking his arms in place. Logan struggled to breathe as he stabbed the attacker’s arm with the dagger still in his right hand.

“You little shit!” the man hissed, letting go of Logan, who ran as far from him as possible.

Logan skidded down the hall in a frenzy and made his way to his door. He clutched the journals to himself like a lifeline, curbing his fear as his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. He ignored the cannon shots and the sound of splintering wood; all that mattered now was getting Mrs. Easton getting her journals back.

Logan pounded the door frantically. A blunt object collided with the side of his head. He staggered back, eyes wide and fearful. He felt his vision fading, barely registering someone screaming his name as he felt weightless, seeing nothing but the deep, dark void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the last chapters I made wherein the next chapter was ready to go.


	3. Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan wakes up in the middle of the ocean.

_Pain._

Logan’s head throbbed as if someone was keeping it locked in an iron grip, squeezing his skull until his brains spilled from the side of his head. It must be a nightmare, he thought. A realistic one at that. He tried to get up, but his body refused to listen to his demands. Instead, it responded with pain.

_It hurts._

Logan felt his knees pressing up against his chest, his legs numb from holding their position. His cheek felt sticky with something  _(blood?)_  that he didn’t want to deal with yet; sweat-soaked hair lay matted against his forehead, and his hand remained unresponsive as he tried to raise it up. Logan took a big gasp of air  _(big mistake, his chest hurt,_ everything _hurts)_ , and tried to stay calm as he felt the twinge of panic nipping at the corners of his mind.

_You’re alive. Breathe._

_In, out._

_In, out._

_Think. What was the last thing that happened?_

He winced. It was hard to think when the only thing he could feel was _pain_. Or perhaps he didn’t want to remember  _yet_. Either way, he stopped trying to recall his memories… for now at least.

He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed so ridiculously heavy that he stopped. He finally registered the sensation underneath the pain; the heaviness of his head, his limbs, his hands: fatigue. No wonder he couldn’t even lift a finger.

Logan turned to his other senses; what could he hear? The splashing of waves, his pulsating heartbeat, and the faraway cawing of the gulls; he must still be at sea, on the way to Equitte to sell his music boxes, and to make his family proud somehow. He must have fallen asleep on the crates by the deck.

What else could he feel? The wind breezing over his face, the ocean rolling up and down from under him… the wetness splashing his clothes from time to time; he definitely wasn’t on the ship anymore; or maybe he was, but it was flooded. He attempted to turn a bit to the side, ignoring the throbs of protest, and immediately felt something shift against his legs, as well as something pressing against his back; the pain in his head eased a bit, to his relief.

Logan slowly opened his eyes.

He almost wished he hadn’t.

The right lens of his glasses were cracked  _(what a miracle that they even managed to stay on his face in the first place)_ ; it wouldn’t cost a lot to replace it, but the problem was finding a competent lens maker in the first place. Of course, the ocean was no place to find one…

Which brought him to his next observation: the ship, Galema, was nowhere to be found. He found himself staring at the sky, now a brilliant, ominous red. The waves rolled out underneath him, and Logan’s stomach lurched along with it. 

The panic began to set in.

He stretched his arms slowly, gritting his teeth as pain flared out again from the side of his head. It turned out that his body had been unconscious in a floating crate the whole time, with barely anything in it other than-

Logan’s breath caught in his throat as his tired eyes skimmed over the leather-bound covers of Mrs. Easton’s journals, safely tucked between him and his knees. His blood rushed in his ears upon recalling the attacker-

He was retrieving the journals for-

Then somebody hit him-

He attempted to get a good look at his surroundings, holding the sides of the crate as he tried to stand, or even kneel, despite the pins and needles pricking at his legs. The waves eventually tipped the crate over, sending Logan to plunge into the water’s dark depths.

He scrambled towards the surface, catching the journals before they sank any further, and struggled to catch his breath as he coughed out the water from his lungs. Logan caught the drifting crate and held it close as the nearest thing to a life preserver on hand.

Floating wood splinters and shards littered the area, but still no sign of Galema and her passengers… or his music boxes… or the parchments he so carefully preserved that would never see the light of day… Logan held back a shuddering breath and focused on finding anything,  _anything_  at all that could help him survive the trip back to Salagos on his own.

He turned to see another crate aimlessly following the currents, and sluggishly swam to it while pushing his own crate along in hopes of finding food for the night. As he approached it however, he felt his heart sink upon recognizing the box as the same one from all the others in his workshop, the very one underneath his bed in Galema. With trembling fingers, he let go of his crate to open the other one, and retrieved the same music box he played not too long ago.

If earlier he felt nothing but pain, now he felt nothing at all.

Logan couldn’t bring himself to do anything else but wind up the music box. The same merry melody played, its tune almost drowned out by the roaring waves, and pierced his heart in ways not even his daggers could’ve achieved. His vision blurred and his cheeks grew damp, but what did he care about that?

If only he’d stayed with his mother, and helped cure her fatal malady. Surely, he had the books that talked of modern medicine, and she’d have kept him company in the dusty workshop, or anywhere else;  _but again_ , he thinks with a frown on his lips, his mother would’ve insisted she was fine, as she was a helpful soul, but refused help for herself.

If only he’d listened to his father, and gone sailing with him when he had the chance. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel so helpless at the ocean’s mercy;  _but then_ , he recalls with a bitter taste on his tongue, his father fell victim to the ruthlessness of the seas, which carried him to lands unknown… and perhaps better than any on this Earth.

If only he’d been quicker, or incapacitated his attacker before he’d been caught, then he might’ve given Mrs. Easton her journals back before she got worried sick; she was probably worried for him now, if she wasn’t already…  _hmm… well…_

The music came to a close, leaving Logan alone in the silence, or however silent the ocean can be.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the wind, “I’ve failed you.”

He broke into sobs, clutching the box to his chest as the crate rocked back and forth, paying no heed to the other crate as it drifted away, swept by the currents. What did he care about that, anyway? He’ll never get to civilization anyway, hell, he probably wouldn’t even survive a day in the ocean. He wound up the music box again, and stared at the sky, wondering what he’d done to deserve a fate like this.

Logan noted a ship approaching from the corner of his eye; a halo of light surrounding it like some sort of saint, coming to lift him from troubled waters. His heart raced in his chest- had Galema come back for him? He desperately wound up the box again and again in hopes of attracting its attention amidst the sounds of the ocean; ignoring the rational part of his brain that said the sound would be too quiet, and clinging on to the hope the sight instilled in him. Logan hoisted himself up on the crate and waved his free arm to catch its attention. He wanted to get home- needed to go home.

As the ship approached, he noticed with startling clarity that it didn’t resemble Galema at all. The sails looked more like scavenged cloth, torn especially near the edges; its hull painted a dull, scratched gray instead of a warm chestnut brown…

Logan didn’t mind, as the thought of returning to Salagos and its piping hot teas and endless scrolls of parchment served as his top priority.

However, when two men hauled him aboard with his tinkling music box and his soggy journals, his feet froze and his legs threatened to buckle as he caught sight of a man in a long, blue coat…

…and with purple-tinged hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had help from a friend while writing! :D


	4. The Gray Walrus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of the Gray Walrus isn't as bad as Logan thought they'd be.

“State your name,” said the man on his right, who was sporting a worn leather patch on his left eye.

“Logan Clarke,” he replied hoarsely, keeping his voice from quivering terribly. His eyes never left the purple-haired man, now approaching him steadily, boots clacking against the wooden deck. He silently willed his music box to stop playing, growing embarrassed.

“Country of origin?” Eyepatch asked him.

“Salagos, sir.”

“Oh, Virgil, leave the poor man alone,” someone else called out. Logan tried to look for its source, but could not tear his eyes from the man’s amber glare.

Virgil, the man with the eye patch it seemed, gave a weary sigh. “All yours, Captain,” he drawled, and clapped the purple-haired man on the shoulder as he passed. Logan felt exposed under the man’s scrutiny, despite being a good inch taller than him. Perhaps there was something about his imposing coat and rigid stance that bothered him.

“You’re hurt,” the Captain spoke in a tone much gentler than Logan had expected. He refrains from instinctively reaching towards the side of his head. “Pray tell, what brings you to this corner of the world?”

“I was… I was going to sell my wares in Equitte,” Logan replied, trying not to avert his gaze from the Captain’s piercing blue eyes. “I made music boxes and preserved parchments.” He noticed his gaze shift to the music box in his hands, and breathed a sigh of relief when the man nodded.

“Terrence! Virgil!” the Captain commanded, turning to his crew, “Help Logan dry up and look after his wounds. Joan, set the course for Salagos. If I’m correct we should be there in fifteen days?”

“Twenty,” replied the person behind the steering wheel, whose only distinct feature Logan could see was a faded orange bandanna on their head.

“Excellent! I’ll help you.” The man beamed brightly and went over to Joan’s side.

“Take a seat,” said someone who Logan assumed to be Terrence, taking a barrel with him. Logan obliged, and immediately felt the fatigue drain out from his head down to the tips of his toes.

Terrence must’ve been the ship’s doctor, if the rolls of gauze peeking out of his pocket was anything to go by. He placed a hand on Logan’s forehead and immediately retracted it with a yelp. “Stars, you’re cold!”

“Sleeping in the ocean will do that to you, I suppose,” he replied dryly, causing Terrence to laugh. His gaze traveled over to Virgil, who was standing idly by, arms crossed and stare vacant.

“You’re lucky it healed quickly,” Terrence spoke, and retrieved a wide strip of cloth from his coat pocket. “Just a bruise, nothing to worry about.” He clapped Logan on his aching shoulder and went on his way, leaving Virgil to take his place.

“I’m the quartermaster of this ship,” he spoke coldly, “I consider myself to be fair"–he leans in close enough to make the hairs on Logan’s arms to stand on end–"so don’t make me regret voting for your stay.”

“Yes sir,” he replied, taking a deep breath. It didn’t hurt as much as before, but he could still feel his heart racing. Virgil moved back, putting Logan at ease.

“Welcome aboard the Gray Walrus then.”

“The Gray…?” Logan trailed off as he focused his attention to the rest of the ship.

The two faded, patched up sails blew gently from their places, and turned from time to time by a short-haired woman wearing a long, tattered skirt. The Captain was near the steering wheel with Joan, the two talking amongst themselves, and Terrence was listening to a blond man idly strumming a ukulele.

“So your Captain…” Logan began, “Is he the Sangrian Savage?”

Virgil snorted, and nodded slowly. “Captain Walter is a good man… well, most of the time anyway. He insists on rescuing lost folk like you.” He turned his gaze towards the purple-haired man. “We rarely ever encounter other pirates, but he makes sure we deal with them quickly whether it be peacefully or not.”

Logan eyed the cutlass strapped on Virgil’s back warily, and felt the weight of his dagger (daggers? Whether he’d managed to keep the other one was beyond him) against his feet.

“Don’t worry, it’s been so long since we’ve met anyone on the sea,” the man beside him drawled, “And we don’t usually kill off people. It’s just better to lose stuff than to lose lives, y'know?” Logan smiled stiffly, and remembered his family and their awful fates once more. Thankfully, Virgil remained quiet afterward, setting his gaze off to the distance and watching the sky turn from a blazing red to a vivid purple.

“Dinner’s ready!” called out a crew member with faded blue hair, carrying a wooden tray with steaming bowls.

“I’ll help you, Talyn!” called out the man with the ukulele, leaving his instrument by the barrels and taking two bowls from the tray, joining the former in handing them out to the crew.

“Thank you Jon!” Talyn called out after him, after giving Logan seemed to be some kind of thick, green bean stew. He took the meal gratefully after setting his music box down by his feet.

Virgil immediately slurped down his own bowl. “Oh, this is way better than last week,” he remarked, smacking his lips, “My compliments to the chef.”

“Aww, you’re just saying that!”

“He’s right!” The short haired woman who was turning the sails went over to them and clapped Talyn on the shoulder, grinning broadly. “I’m not sure if it’s the salt or the beans, but it really is better.”

“Hey Val,” Virgil raised his arm lazily to give her a two-finger salute.

“Hey to you too,” she replied, saluting back. They started talking animatedly, leaving Logan to himself.

Logan turned back to his stew as he tuned out the conversation between the three, relishing the little warmth it offered to his hands and belly. His gaze wandered over to the steering wheel, and was surprised to make eye contact with the Captain. He turned away, a bit too quickly perhaps, and focused on finishing his food.

“Where will he sleep?” he heard Talyn ask, “Certainly not out here in the open.”

“I doubt the Captain would let him sleep in his quarters,” Valerie mused.

“He can stay with us below the deck,” Virgil replied, “I’ll just put up another hammock for him.”

 

That he did, a few minutes later; a ratty length of cloth tied between two support beams, positioned underneath another hammock. That being said, Logan noticed a group of other hammocks of different shapes and sizes not far from his.

 _Well_ , he thought to himself, _this is better than sleeping alone in a crate on the ocean_. Logan sat down and stared into the nothingness, idly picking at a loose thread in the fabric as he attempted to unscramble his thoughts.

First, he never expected a pirate ship to come and rescue him from his watery peril, which was, ironically, also caused by pirates.

Second, the crew seemed better than he’d expected; not that he had anything against pirates other than well, the usual tales of thievery and bloodshed.

Third, the so-called Sangrian Savage didn’t seem so ruthless and well,  _savage_ , compared to what Garreth and the governor and all those other accounts relayed to him. On the contrary, he found the quartermaster more intimidating than the Captain himself, what with his eye patch and his almost accusatory drawl.

Exhausted after a long day, Logan lightly patted the music box under his hammock and finally resigned himself to slumber.

…At least, that was the plan until someone grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him awake.

“All hands on deck!” He heard Virgil yell from afar, “We’ve never gone down in a storm before and we sure as hell aren’t gonna start now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hesitate to write a comment or leave kudos! I'm still in school, so updates won't be as quick; feedback motivates me to continue! :D

**Author's Note:**

> You can see this fic on my tumblr [here!](https://eriysa-p.tumblr.com/tagged/the-sangrian-savage)


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